2008/2009

me my mind and i

together and inside

turn indecent with intoxicants

i

took

on

purpose.

they take me back to basic garage/i listen to Dylan sneer.

its a school night.

pretend its poor old 68

when its poor old 2008.

i

am

poor and old.

i lie on the tobacco carpet.

and NO is the word right now/NO NO NO

in this Robocop breakdown . . .

so

so

so

i’m heading out there/out to get myself

absorbed into the greater mass.

i have to/this is always

a hard night for me

and

i want to be

absorbed

by

a

greater mass.

this year a new layer lies itself down/down like a tombstone

and

i listen too hard to the holes in the wall.

Fairy Light Lady

came round in the night/didn’t understand me

at all.

i thought/hoped she did. 

but

that is beauty at its most simple

and

history at its most recent

like

old jeans always hanging off the back of the door.

NOTHING HAPPENED

she

always

said

after something happened.

DIHYDROCOEDINE CHRISTMAS

it’s a dihydrocoedine xmas

a dihydro-hydra xmas.

its like

red snakes

and

hot dead bowels

its like rolling 24 on DVD.

I am dihydra-full of feelings.

horrible feelings

I want tuned out.

I have no comprehension, no skills to cope here.

I am the dihydra-softling

druggled

out on the periphery.

weakened and confused as a bank.

in no way am I tooled up for the job of life

life!

life hovers

like black choppers

in the one moon sky over my detached head.

things;

hateful

and

exclusive things.

a world full of oblivious girls busy

in no-name jeans.

(I am

their no-name jeans)

car keys bulge practical in their no-name pockets

tight on their thighs

thighs

thighs

it’s a dihydropainkiller and I take it for my dihydropain

with any

red wine

Mo sells

for 5 pounds.

I am Jack Bauer’s mission, man and machine.

and

like a Buckowski

I will grab your innocent shoulder

say

I WILL HIT YOU!

while staring hard at your no-name jeans

because I am angry

angry

angry.

I am

thinking

about

girls legs

in their

no-name

jeans.

I am

no-name

too.

I am weirdly invisible in the streets light.

          my mind

          (all that is really me)

          takes a back seat . . .

is willing and complicit in my delusion

     because

     the world is so fucking boring today

          and my escalated drama

          is the only palatable FOOD.

and if I let my mind think now I would fill it

with sad

and

cry.

mostly

this happens at night time,

mostly.

  

I am Jack Bauer’s Dobson Override.

his

mental dihydro-drive

but my heart has no CTU.

          I am

dihydro-moth hungry for one bulb.

(she smells,

in a good way)

but obviously EVERYTHING is pointless

and soon

to be

old dust

dead as skin down by the skirting board.

life alive flies like black choppers out the front door

a FAMILY!

(my dihydroheart shits with old fear)

out for a day out

in some car

some car

some car

some no-name hatchback car.

full of kids stuff and moods

is driving

sadness and living nostalgia

to the relentless and crowded beach.

oh life alive I will know you gently

weirdly so weirdly

with happenstance

soft time

and kindly intervention.

AND

there’s

black choppers thud-thud-thudding

in place of a

babyheart pump-pump-pumping.

oh old child heart grow out of your no-name tracksuit

you wore in Devon 1984.

  

I am Jack Bauer’s creamy bokah.

the beautiful backdrop to relentless terrorism

to Hollywood love propaganda

love propaganda

love.

love.

propaganda.

when I don’t even have the dihydro-skills to follow myself

out of

the storm drain.

when a new dawn fades; tho really it was always black.   

it was only

her reflected light

that I could see.

when reflected glory,

vicarious,

fades in a new dawn I know

                   know

                   know

         

REAL detachment has a rush

has value

has euphoria

has safety

has a reassuringly black coat on.

dihydra-xmas, dead now,

    

I march on

detached.

TEXT MESSAGE 1

i'm seeing 

intense imagined spite

in the 

innocent intended kindness

(my furious fear

is a naked uncool satchel

a shoulder bag weeping and wailing and

stuffed and compressed 

with steaming complicit delusions-

its EXPLODING and unzipping and

it

reads 

THINGS 

in the 

NOTHINGS)

its only

an

integrated template 

some seasonal interphone message . . .

 

but a incensed cold rage covers me

in

doorless windowless

ice

XMAS EVE 2007

you were meant to be in your gypsy dress

you were meant to have mistletoe in your jet hair

you were meant to meet me when I got in late;

a CELEBRITY because

I been to see an ENT specialist!

(he put cameras up my nose

he looked DEEP inside

says he cant see anything/says deal with it)

you were meant to meet me

but you’d been

on call

all night

and didn’t come in at all

all day

or ring me

or turn up last friday

or

answer

your

mobile

phone

ever 

again

STRANGE AFTERNOON

this afternoon is stale is strange is naked.

i am as exposed

as global money (never heard of sums so big).

i am a gaping bag of sorry guts.

the Dr 

could SEE

could SEE 

but couldnt HELP me/found me funny

and he referred me

to a hospital I have to ring myself.

in the shop the shop was strange.

colours and shapes/just 

colours and shapes

and i am in the cool cool aisle of glass

in the supermarket so cold

but i have no list with me;

i am not capable of that.

no system . . . nothing at all/just 

nothing at all

but a spaced out funk punk filling a plastic basket

with any wine/sundries that 

catch my lost eyes.

sticking with only wine i am back home.

drink it from the bottle

straight from the bottle thats on the kitchen table

under the clock i watch thinking and thinking.

i pace the tobacco carpet

looking at the dead street out the windows.

there is horrible rain out there

dark and falling

just dark and falling.

i am Jack Bauer’s third runway
this

weird Monday naked afternoon . . .

a Monday afternoon

when the Dr. SAW me but couldnt HELP me.

HEARTRATE

only been writing at the old kitchen table for less than one hour/on drink three/lowered my heart rate with migraine pills/need more for the mercury in my back/i’m smoking

and

all

i

think

of

is

the woman whose smile spreads

like heaven opening and

like heaven surrendering and

like heaven submitting and

like heaven knowing

when

I

got

her

laying

down

pinned where I need her warm and happening

and

how 

her sweet lemonade tastes better 

than 

my 

salty tears.

MEMORIES

i smell the smells again from when i first moved my stuff in here.

in and out of the

loft

for

days

i left the thrown egg to dry on the front window.

3

years

later

I haven’t cleaned any windows at all.

i smell smells from last years autumn fires.  London’s winter comes in

hung with last years spring

thats still

waiting

round the corner

of the house

by

the

blooming

crocuses.

i smell the smells of all the seasons.  some mixed bag of weather

and

air.

putting out red sheets for drying new sun reminds me of last years summer with the insects

everywhere

when 

the right teeth

sunk themselves

in

all

the

right open door wounds.

this is sweet history hanging in the firmament

fragrant

with memories

drifting 

in

the

cigarette smoke.

SUDDENLY HIGH

i am suddenly high and rushing/bank holiday Monday

tho

it feels

like . . . a new clean dimension/but

don’t know if its good.

toilet flushing is v loud/hurtling hissing rivers in the wall

a volcano – i freeze.

i am touching the kitchen radio/it is another heart

external and eternal . . .

my shirt is a soft and loving skin/luxury now –

just laundry this morning

and i

breath and breath and breath

shrugging and moving/tactile

in wonderful new space

that used

to

only

be

the sofa.

cold cider in a bottle/so WELL designed/a sweet booze kiss

from a cool round mouth/never closed

and

my

feet -

SO FUCKING tactile! squirm in pleasure

bare naked rubbing

the sofa arm and the cushion/cheap fabric

is

angels

hair.

rain out in garden

is a weird windy English gothic treat

touching the windows

with NOISE and ATMOSPHERE like a classic novel –

on TV is a CGI heavy movie*

every kid

seen

three years ago and still high

I sigh into

my busted dusty sofa and all the red cushions there

eyes wide

like

a

child/cigarettes forgot for now.

*Transformers

NO POST

no post today
in honour of Health Workers and 
for 
the 
Uniformed Invisibles and
for 
the 
clerks running closed cluttered offices and 
the long ward circus
bright eyed smoking green menthols 
in the overcast sun.
big hearts
swollen on cardigan sleeves 
wondering
WHY ME and WHY NOT ME/impossible not to
hug
for 
simple comfort/only and all i can just do.


no post today
in honour of endless dangerous daughters
and
strong sweet mothers still smiling smiling smiling.
soft and strong and deep running rivers 
that nurture and turn and hold
the problem and disaster world/let down by
others silent sons
still hug him happy/simple comfort
in the Tesco car.


no post today
in honour of polyester hospital staff
that tune and tweak 
mortal soft machine.
no post today
in honour of hot stomach knots/arrive with the cool dawn
wicked whirlpools of Every Feeling and
realisation and
open windows to let sky and pain
come in as they are/like spun
moments 
enormous and
wet with eyes.


no post today
in honour of everyone who needs
two days to think/to make a simple plan/no post 
for A&E phone calls/turn pretty lips serious and small
and tense
in determination thats inspiration

for a spinning whirlpool man.


no post today
in honour of 11AMs furious foundless
delicate mists/no post for perspective flung and 
lost and
found late thats hot
like new
roses picked and placed in glass
on the apology table.


no post today
thursday of 1000 moments/no post today
for the sun and 
for no sun and 
for the great swept ships; unsinkable.
no post today for mercury mothers/never 
think of themselves like they think of us/weak 
children 
not 
posting/spoilt in troubled freedom.

THE RHYTHM AND THE PUNCH

the rigid rhythm and the kidney punch

of

all

the

furious flamed and god-blind calendar days

can never deny

the baritone

of

the brave ignored and infinite silent sunlit NOW.

slim identity slipping away behind still music/sound of peoples

rushed waking sleep.

i hear them

over

back

fences

and behind front doors.

a glass man spoke about this on TV/i heard him/i was napping/i was breathing.

well, home I am in/i am awake/morning panic mist now.

well, home i am in

and

the

cooker looks to me for dinner.

NO MONEY OR TIME

useless and bored and defeated and angry.

its a brilliant may monday.

heat lays like steel slabs over everything.

everyone comes out 

and lunches

on

sad

patches

of

grass.

little brown nurse says it for me.

FUCKING HELL FORD!

she says

NO FUCKING MONEY OR TIME!

home i sneer poems into a microphone over ambient grunge.

i launch them electronically

into

another

world.

today

the

chirping dusk birds are no natures joy

but

ignorant irritants of careless creation.

breath deep breath deep . . .

i water the garden pots

for the calm/for the plastic zen.

my mother and father put them in

and i hope i can

enjoy

them

some

easy

afternoon.

WOT IS IT?

some sort of crumbly brown rock/you all discuss what it is/leb or blonde or slate or rocky/does it fluff up or crumble/all hard to get now they grow skunk up tower blocks/don’t need to process it at all-

the

oily sticky smell reminds

me

of

burnt melted fingernails in brown half moons you trim and chew

and

hot clipper ridges of solid skin in both thumbs/best use a candle/no one ever got one

and

90s campsites burnt wood/pretty faces lit by nature/drop a blim but somehow someone can just SEE IT clearly even against the night brown soil of not-blim stones

and

backgardens round old white plastic furniture/its freezing/papers get wet in fat rain drops

and

garage forecourts/stand there in the weeds looking at the windows to see if someone can see

and

third hand ford hatchbacks with bongs made out of coke bottles/radio on/parked behind a school when a rockstar died

and

the rizla rolling roadshow in brighton after morning mescal that was hilarious when i had no skins

and

outside by phone boxes on childrens corners and in strangers bedrooms/everyone sits on the bed/always waiting always the waiting/the endless waiting for ringing phones/torn foil holds small brown triangles/right money folded right

and

high fear paranoia in day light city centres and TV you cant believe and racing games you cant play

and

the hilarious street sign telling me where i am/wooden bus stops where we all loose our fags

and

army surplus smells of wet dog in spring college rain and climbing winter trees with own brand booze in green tins

and

not being able to climb down/when you do how scary a close horse is

and

all the hundred stars between the glowing clouds on the  school field/broke in sat in old maths chair from years before

and

hanging out a sunroof yelling at the thrill of summer night of some girls car/she’ll never give me a lift again

and

every taxi is a police car and all the footpaths between A roads and all night garages are marched/sparks coming off our heels/laughing wanting food

and

rolling up on country styles under creepy churches and in grey metal street corner transformers/danger of death somehow funny then

and

all the hot rocks bouncing/and all the 

t-shirts and hoodies with worn hot rock holes like thin nets

and

all the tent zips zipping and all the travel tired clothes

and

the lingering stink of spilt cider/sodden walking boot socks

all this is singing to me

from

fumes

of a hot glass rock.